


A Tale of Love and Protein

by greedy_dancer



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Cooking, M/M, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-29
Updated: 2011-10-29
Packaged: 2017-10-25 01:35:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greedy_dancer/pseuds/greedy_dancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The duel between Mike's spicy Southwestern cuisine and Frank's vegetarian/fusion Italian food has been a long time coming, and both of them have acquired vocal supporters and violent detractors along the way – including each other. "How do you feel, calling yourself a chef when you won't touch meat?" is Mike’s favourite question to pester Frank with; there are whole Tumblrs dedicated to collecting Frank’s increasingly creative ways of telling Mike that “a slab of bloody dead animal with salsa on top can’t be considered haute cuisine”. There are </i>macros.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tale of Love and Protein

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crazybutsound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazybutsound/gifts).



> Written for the Get Pedicone Some meme, for this prompt: _Mike/Frank. Top Chef AU. They're both in the final and each one of them picks what the other one gets to cook for the final challenge. Mike chooses all meat dishes for Frank, and after the challenge, Frank corners Mike in the kitchen. And then, food fight! Or, you know, sex. *g*_ Originally posted [here](http://piratesunk.livejournal.com/17635.html?thread=339171#t339171).
> 
> Thanks to Maryangel for running the meme, Jedusaur for looking this over, and Kopperblaze for ~~bullying~~ "gently nudging" and laughing at my stupid protein-related dirty jokes.
> 
> Podfic by Crazybutsound available [here](http://crazybutsound.livejournal.com/786473.html).

By the time the season finale rolls in, the country's cooking enthusiasts are all holding their breath.

Narrowing it down from the final four to the final two is excruciating, and things get pretty intense at the judging table. In the end, Ray and Mikeyway are sent back to pack their knives, and Gerard’s chin wobbles dangerously when he, as guest judge, has to announce the news.

The hug Mikey gets from Frank is so long, half of it has to be cut from the episode.

No matter how heartbreaking it is to see the Jersey Trio finally separated, there’s no denying that the final challenge promises to be exciting. The duel between Mike's spicy Southwestern cuisine and Frank's vegetarian/fusion Italian food has been a long time coming, and both of them have acquired vocal supporters and violent detractors along the way – including each other. "How do you feel, calling yourself a chef when you won't touch meat?" is Mike’s favourite question to pester Frank with; there are whole Tumblrs dedicated to collecting Frank’s increasingly creative ways of telling Mike that “a slab of bloody dead animal with salsa on top can’t be considered _haute cuisine_ ”. There are _macros_.

In short, the producers are rubbing their hands. It’s going to be one for the books. Tapes. Tivos.

*

The house feels empty without Ray and Mikey. Frank immediately moves all of his stuff, including his piles of cookbooks and the shoe boxes full of his beloved notebooks, into Mike’s room. Mike barely looks up from his laptop, which Frank takes as a sign that Mike was feeling lonely, too. He settles on what used to be Ray’s bed for a nap.

*

Mike thought the gleaming kitchen would get less intimidating in time, but it didn’t. On the contrary, it’s even worse now that only two work stations are prepared, all the others reminding him of the worthy contestants who were sent home because of one small mistake. Bob and his overcooked rice. Spencer and his exploding molecular dish. Gabe and the infamous charred asado that almost destroyed the whole kitchen. All right, so that one was pretty big, Mike thinks, but since he’s not planning on building a wood fire in his oven, he figures he's safe.

He settles behind his workbench, unpacking his knives, and watches as Frank does the same, ignoring the cameras that are circling them like sharks.

By the time the producer gives everyone the thumbs up, Mike’s more than ready to go, to get his hands on some food, to stop thinking and start doing what he does best: cooking.

*

The challenge, when it comes, is too easy to be true. “Prepare a three-course meal that tells your life story,” Padma tells them with a sly smile. “The winner of this challenge will win the title of Top Chef, and $100,000 to fulfil their culinary dreams.”

They’re both waiting for the twist, Frank literally bouncing in place, Mike drumming his fingers on the metal work station. “In order to complete this challenge,” Padma continues, “you will have one hour to shop, and three hours to cook, and the help of some very special sous-chefs.”

They both look up at that, and who should come into the kitchen but Mikeyway and Ray, wearing matching tired eyes and beaming smiles.

“Motherfucker!” Frank exclaims, prompting a loud sigh from the production assistant, before launching himself at the guys.

Mike wins first choice in the coin toss, but he doesn’t even try to take Mikey away from Frank. Truthfully, he’d rather work with someone who doesn’t communicate mostly through the secret language of eyebrows.

*

They’re both ready for this; more than ready, in fact. They spent most of the previous night brainstorming possible challenges and jotting down potential recipes, trying to cover all bases and to account for each of the judges’ specific tastes. Who loves spice, who hates eggs, who prefers fruit to chocolate in their desserts... It’s all there, in their heads, along with the precise grammage for pastry and the precise temperature to cook red snapper.

They both come up with their entire menus on the way to Whole Foods.

Mike only needs five minutes to decide on shrimp tartar with a jalapeño and lemon salsa for his starter, his favourite ribeye recipe with butternut, tender belly bacon and chimichurri as a main, and a sweet version of the burrito as a dessert. Ray makes him explain about going fishing with his grandpa, and the relevance of the burrito as a Southwestern dish, then claps him on the shoulders and gives him the hair bounce of approval.

Frank’s calling on his Jersey roots and updating the simple classics with his signature vegetarian twist, making quinoa risotto with mushrooms, a deconstructed “Garden State” sub with sweet potato fries, and finally, encouraged by Mikey’s eyebrows, the salt water taffy pie that made his reputation.

Their hour of shopping goes by in a flash, but by the end of it, the twist still hasn’t been announced. Frank, Mike and their friendly helpers go back to the kitchen fully expecting to find that their knives have been replaced by sporks, or that they will now have to cook with one hand tied behind their backs. The incredulous glances they share when everything is exactly as they left it say volumes about their suspicions.

In the absence of any apparent fuckery, though, the mad rush to the finish line commences. They start peeling and chopping and detailing their veggies, getting tenser with each minute that passes without Padma appearing through the door.

It’s such a relief when Cortez, Frank’s camera guy, taps him on the shoulder to indicate she’s arrived.

“All right, chefs,” she starts, “I hope you didn’t think it would be quite this easy!” Mike snorts, and Frank giggles nervously, fidgeting with the ties of his black apron. “Starting now, the rules have changed. You will start by swapping sous-chefs.”

A collective groan is heard, but it’s nothing compared to the chaos that breaks out at her next sentence.

“That’s not all. You will also swap menus.”

“WHAT?”

*

Frank is going to kill Mike. Well, first he’s going to win. Then he’s going to kill him, maybe by choking him with his $100,000.

Mike’s piece of meat is bloody and disgusting. The bone is attached, and there’s fat running in the middle, and there’s just no way Frank can look at it and see anything else than parts of a dead animal.

Worse than the dead animal, though, are the shrimp. Those are actually still alive, which means Frank’s going to have to kill them himself.

“Fucker!” Frank calls across the room as he plunges his knife into the steak. Blood seeps out onto his cutting board, probably spelling out ‘murder’ in red letters. Not that Frank’s looking.

“I fucking hate you!” he shouts at Mike when he tries to grip the shrimp in the way that will allow for the least contact between his fingers and the animals. “This is exactly why I quit cooking school, you know?” He plunges the shrimp into the boiling water and closes the lid as quickly as he can.

“We all know,” Mike shoots back. “You’re the cook with principles, the vegetarian genius, now shut the hell up while I figure out how to cook your fucking rabbit food! Who the fuck eats quinoa, anyway?”

“Guys?” Brian the P.A. calls for the fourth time. “Can you please try and at least keep it PG?”

“Fuck you, Brian!” Frank and Mike call out in unison.

“Also, Frank,” Brian continues, unperturbed, “the network would appreciate it if you could stop referring to your ingredients as ‘the corpses’ and ‘the innocent victims’, all right?” he concludes, and then, in a low voice that still gets picked up by the sound guy: “I’m so asking them to put me back on Project Runway next season.”

*

Frank has Ray deal with most of the formerly-alive ingredients, and busies himself with the veggies and sauces and Mike’s heart-attack of a dessert. He mostly doesn’t touch Mike’s original recipes - apart from turning Mike’s salsa into a foam, but he just can’t help himself – and with Ray’s help, manages to follow Mike’s plan pretty well.

Even Ray’s hair catching fire when he leans too close to the grill doesn’t break their concentration.

Mike, on the other hand, is struggling with Frank’s particular brand of cooking. He can’t get the texture of the quinoa risotto right, no matter how much parmesan he adds, and he has no idea how to make salt water taffy into a _pie_. Mikey tries to help, giving as much silent input as he can, but as they enter into the last ten minutes, it becomes clear that the dice are pretty much cast, and that all they can do is plate as neatly as they can and wait for the judges’ verdict.

Padma comes in and calls the time, and the four cooks collapse, exhausted and relieved, crossing the set to give each other hugs (and surreptitiously try to taste each other’s sauces).

*

They both get rave reviews at the Judges’ Table. Tom Colicchio tells them he’s been reconciled with vegetarianism as a lifestyle, which prompts Frank to run up and launch himself across the table to give him a hug. Mike is praised for the seasoning of his deconstructed sandwich, which makes him turn red and shuffle his feet a lot. Frank gets told that, for someone who holds a profound disgust for most of what he had to cook, he did an amazing job with it.

In the end, it’s Chef Alex Suarez, the guest judge for the episode, who makes both Frank and Mike wipe their eyes a little. “The challenge was to tell your own story,” he says, “but in the end, you managed to tell each other’s stories beautifully, even while competing against each other. There was a lot of both of you in each dish, and a lot of love, and we all felt that while tasting them.”

“Thank you, chefs, for this extraordinary meal,” Padma continues. "Unfortunately, there can only be one winner. And this year, the Top Chef is ...”

Frank and Mike leave their allotted spots and reach for each other’s hands.

*

“Cheers, motherfuckers!” Frank calls as he clinks his champagne glass with Mike’s, then Ray’s and Mikey’s. The others are too far, but they all raise their glasses in his direction, Spencer and Bob with happy smiles, Gabe with a leer, Lindsey and Alicia with fond looks. Jamia couldn’t make it, busy incubating twins, and Ryan and Z had disappeared together, to the utter glee (or disgust, depending where you looked) of a good part of the internet.

Frank had decided that a good way to start spending his prize money was to invite his competitors-turned-friends to dinner.

“Will there be dead animals on the menu?” Gabe had asked.

“Please don’t make me look at quinoa ever again,” Mike had pleaded.

“How about _Helena’s_?” Frank had suggested finally. He’d had Mikey ask his brother if they could maybe privatize the restaurant for the night. Mikey had only had to mention that, yes, Lindsey would be there, and it had been a done deal.

“So, what are you gonna do with all that money?” Mikey asks Frank.

Frank thinks for a second, sipping at his champagne. “Well, I mean... I already have my restaurant, you know?” he says finally. “And I know it’s small and it’s only Jersey, but I don’t want to move anywhere else,” he adds, casting a defensive glance across the table, as if daring anyone to contradict him. No one does. They learnt long ago never to suggest that Frank could find any advantages whatsoever in maybe leaving Jersey for bigger prospects.

“Maybe you could stay in Jersey, and just expand?” Mike suggests. “You’ve got the recognition, you’ve got the name... I’m sure you could attract a new clientele from the city,” he continues.

“Hm, maybe,” Frank muses. “Truth is, I’d need a partner if I wanted to expand, and I just don’t know if anyone would be interested.”

“You never know,” Mike says, looking Frank right in the eye, and Frank raises an eyebrow, suddenly curious. Unfortunately, this is the exact second Gabe chooses to climb on his chair to “make a life-changing announcement”, and the moment is lost. Gabe’s announcement, or what can be parsed from his drunken rumblings, seems to be that he’s partnering with chef Suarez to open a seafood restaurant called “Cobra Starfish”, because a snake told him to.

Frank has to get up and launch himself at Gabe, and then Gerard comes out with their food, and there is more wine and more laughter and more food, and the evening turns into a happy blur.

*

Frank’s head is buzzing agreeably, and the alley seems to be spinning just the tiniest bit, even though he’s leaning against the wall. It’s raining, just barely. He takes a deep drag of this cigarette and lets the smoke burn his throat on the way down, enjoying the moist air on his overheated face.

“Here you are,” someone says from his left, and then “you got a light?”

Mike steps into view, an unlit cigarette between his lips.

Frank digs his lighter out of his pocket and hands it to him, and they smoke in silence for a little while, looking at each other.

“I got you something,” Mike says after a while. “It’s in my car.”

“Is it now?” Frank smirks. He’s suddenly certain of where this is going, even though until that moment he had no idea. But it’s obvious, really. It was obvious all along. He doesn’t know how he didn’t realize before.

“Uh, yes?” Mike says, visibly confused. “D’you want me to get it now?”

“I’ll come with you,” Frank says, dropping his cigarette and crushing the butt on the wet asphalt.

He follows Mike to his car, watches as Mike bends to get something from inside the trunk. He emerges with a small package. “Here,” Mike says, handing it to Frank. “It’s not much.”

Frank tears the paper, and it’s a t-shirt. A pink t-shirt, with writing across the chest that says [MEAT IS MURDER. Tasty, tasty murder. ](http://www.threadless.com/product/490/Meat_is_Murder_Tasty_Tasty_Murder)

It’s hilarious, and Frank thinks it’s the most amazing gift he’s ever been given, and Frank thinks Mike’s the most amazing guy he’s ever met, and it doesn’t even occur to him to be offended because someone’s making fun of his convictions again. This is _Mike_.

Frank pulls the shirt over his button-down and takes a step back, spreading his arms and slowly turning around. “How do I look?” he asks.

“Great,” Mike answers. “It’s a girl medium, but I thought it’d fit you.” He stops for a second, then takes a step towards Frank. “You... You look great, Frank.”

Frank takes a step towards Mike, gets up on his toes, and kisses him.

*

They end up back at Frank’s, but not before he has to swear to Mike that he won’t make him eat quinoa for breakfast.

“Jesus, I’ll make you fake bacon, all right?” Frank pants as he tries to shove his hands under Mike’s shirt.

“Oh-okay,” Mike answers in a rush of breath.

Mike’s not that much taller than Frank, but he’s much wider, and more solid, somehow. Frank throws his arms around Mike’s neck, wraps his legs around Mike’s waist and makes him carry him up the stairs to Frank’s flat.

“I’m drunk,” he complains when Mike huffs and puffs.

“I’m drunk too,” Mike protests. “Plus, I hope you weren’t planning on getting laid tonight, because telling me you’re too drunk to walk is not going to make that happen.”

Frank jumps down immediately and starts running up the stairs instead. “Look at that coordination, motherfucker,” he exclaims.

Mike laughs. “Shut up and open the door before your neighbours come out to investigate.”

*

In the end, they’re actually too tired to fuck. They make a half-hearted attempt at it, but Mike can see Frank’s eyes closing by degrees as he’s blowing him. He’s only half-hard himself, and going down rather than up, he can tell. He ends up half-dragging, half-carrying Frank to what he guesses is his bedroom, and dumps him on the bed, shirt, shoes, open jeans and all.

“Mike?” Frank slurs, “you staying, right?”

“’Course,” Mike tells him, and takes off his own jeans before settling next to Frank on top of the covers.

Frank’s only response is a light snore.

*

Mike wakes up with a light hangover, which sucks, and Frank’s mouth on his cock, which doesn’t. Or, well, no, it does, it most definitely does.

“Unggh,” he tells Frank, and pushes up a little with his hips.

“Mmff,” Frank answers, and pats Mike’s chest over his shirt.

Mike rolls his head from side to side and keeps thrusting lightly into Frank’s warm mouth, fitting his hand around Frank’s skull. He gives Frank a tap on the shoulder when he gets close, which is fairly quickly, but Frank doesn’t shift away and swallows when Mike comes.

“Hmm,” Frank says as he climbs back up to flop next to Mike. “Protein I didn’t have to kill myself.”

“That’s disgusting,” Mike tells him, but weakly, because that was a pretty awesome blowjob he just got. “You need a hand with that?” he asks, gesturing vaguely towards Frank’s crotch.

“I’ve got it,” Frank says, shoving his boxers down and taking himself in hand. He must have gotten rid of his jeans and shirt while Mike was still sleeping, Mike thinks, and then he gets engrossed in the show and stops thinking about clothes.

“Just, you can,” Frank says, breathing fast already, “you can touch me if you want. Or, like, kiss me?”

Mike rolls onto his side and puts his hand on Frank’s chest and his mouth on Frank’s neck. He pinches at one of Frank’s nipples, and sucks at Frank’s Adam’s apple when he turns his head to make it available, and Frank’s movements get more and more rapid until he tenses all over and comes, kicking his legs out.

“Fuck,” Frank sighs, and turns his head to give Mike a close-mouthed kiss.

“We didn’t tell anyone we were leaving,” Mike remembers suddenly.

“They probably figured it out when neither of us came back from our smokes,” Frank answers. “Probably before that, even. I’m gonna go make coffee.” He gets up and pads out of the room, scratching at his stomach and going “eww” when he ends up smearing his come around.

“Wash your hands first,” Mike calls after him, even though he’s pretty sure Frank cares more than he does about hygiene.

He thinks about getting up and going to help Frank in the kitchen, but then again... Maybe he’ll just wait for Frank to bring him breakfast in bed.

There have to be perks to fucking a Top Chef, right?

  
THE END

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(podfic of) A Tale of Love and Protein](https://archiveofourown.org/works/304454) by [Crazybutsound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazybutsound/pseuds/Crazybutsound)




End file.
